


if i lose you, i lose myself

by highfunctioningclotpole



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24772231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highfunctioningclotpole/pseuds/highfunctioningclotpole
Summary: After a death shakes Sherlock's world, he disappears.John has no idea where he is or if he's even safe.Time seems to drag as the days pass by.John wonders if Sherlock will ever return.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 47





	if i lose you, i lose myself

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy this short one-shot angst, I had fun writing it! 
> 
> Thank you to the fantastic tumblr users: imluckilyinvisible for proofreading and the title and to river1983 for also proofreading! 
> 
> Pls let me know what you think!
> 
> -Much Love x

Mycroft Holmes’ funeral had been a solemn affair, a quiet, small gathering of family and colleagues. Mycroft didn’t have  _ friends,  _ much like his brother. But John sat there, beside Lestrade feeling the loss in his life as he looked up at Sherlock at the front of the gathering, a blank expression on his face which John couldn’t read. The ceremony passed quickly and as soon as it was over, Sherlock had disappeared. 

That was the last time John had seen Sherlock Holmes for a whole week. 

It had been the longest week of John’s life. John was sure that something like this would happen, he knew that Sherlock would shut down in a way he never had before, but John never expected a disappearing act. 

The silence of the flat was deafening and John spent each day ringing and texting the detectives phone, searching the streets of London in the hopes of finding any clue of his whereabouts. The Doctor visited all the members he could find of Sherlock’s homeless network, looked down every alley and backstreet and there was nothing. There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere.

John felt like he was losing his mind, overcome with worry and concern for the detective until one night, after another long search round Hyde Park, John came home and something was different. He could sense something in the flat and as he rubbed his face, rough stubble scratching his hands he heard a familiar sound coming from Sherlock’s room. John ran, his feet hitting the ground hard and he pushed Sherlock’s door open, not daring to hope too much. The door creaked under his touch and the room was dark. 

The curtains had been drawn, no lights were shining and there, in the middle of Sherlock’s bed was a body. John froze at the door, unable to believe his eyes. He took a few tentative steps forwards and reached out a hand to the mass on the bed. The body stirred. It was cold to the touch and John felt his breath hitch, his mind finally realising that this was in fact real. 

The doctor summoned all his courage and took one final step towards the bed, pulling the covers back gently. 

Under the pile of dark blue sheets lay Sherlock Holmes, shivering and sleeping. Tears stung at the corner of John’s eyes because Sherlock was  _ here.  _ Sherlock was  _ safe _ and it was the greatest feeling in the world. John quickly pulled the covers back up, trying so hard to stop the shivering that seemed to shake Sherlock’s whole body. He brushed Sherlock’s curls gently, fingers brushing ever so lightly so as not to wake the man. 

John wasn’t sure how long he stayed there but he couldn’t bring himself to leave, not after a week without the man. He’d always heard that absence makes the heart grow fonder but he never wanted to find out this way. John’s whole body ached with relief knowing that Sherlock had come home, back to their flat, back to  _ him. _

Sherlock slept soundly, a deep exhaustion taking over him and even when John left to grab more blankets to cover him with, Sherlock didn’t stir. John moved to a kitchen chair to the corner of the detectives room and sat there, watching and waiting for the minute Sherlock woke up. When morning came, John was awoken by the sound of birdsong and he jumped in place, forgetting momentarily where he was. As his eyes adjusted, memories of the night before came flooding back and John stared at the now empty bed realising it was all a dream.

The doctor felt his chest tighten, his heart sinking as the image before him became clearer. A stream of light glimmered under the curtains, illuminating the room in a dim glow and John lowered his head in his hands. 

_ I’ve finally bloody lost it, _ John thought. He assumed his mind had become so worked up over the disappearance of Sherlock that he’d imagined the man’s return and now reality was dragging him back down to Earth with rough hands. The doctor stood up from his post in Sherlock’s room and slowly slumped his way upstairs to his own bed. He collapsed on the sheets with a huff, his body relaxing into the soft mattress, lulling him back to sleep. 

When John woke for the second time that day, his mood was still the same. He yearned for something to take his mind off it all, something to take away the pain he felt whenever thoughts of Sherlock entered his mind. It was bad enough that the week had begun with a funeral but John couldn’t face the possibility that it would end in another. He simply had to find Sherlock.

With a quick change of clothes and a freshen up, John was out the door again. He searched frantically around all the areas he knew Sherlock liked to frequent, maybe he’d been hiding in Barts for a week? But nothing came of it, wherever John looked, wherever he glanced, he was just met with unfamiliar faces. John checked in with Lestrade who’d had some of his team out looking for Sherlock, the case now classed as a missing person, but they’d had no leads either.

“John, I’m sorry. We haven’t found anything yet.” Lestrade’s voice sounded tired over the phone.  
  
“Well it’s not fucking good enough!” John shouted, his voice cracking slightly.  
  
“We’re doing everything we can. None of us could’ve predicted how he’d react to Mycroft dy--”  
  
“I know! I bloody know.. I’m sorry. Sorry, Greg. It’s just, I miss him.”  
  
“I know, John. And we’ll find him.” 

Lestrade's voice was laced with understanding, hearing the unspoken truth in John’s words. It was more than friendship that John felt for Sherlock and Lestrade promised he would do everything in his power to find the man.

Admitting defeat for the day, John returned to 221B dejectedly, unready to face another night alone in the flat. He climbed the stairs slowly, each step echoing in the gloomy atmosphere. As he pushed open the front door, John hardly registered the flat, he was simply going through the motions of kicking his shoes off and hanging his coat up without thinking. The doctor shuffled through to the kitchen where he clicked the kettle on without looking and he leant over the sink with a deep sigh. 

“John…” A voice croaked and the doctor closed his eyes in despair, he couldn’t bear for his mind to play tricks on him again. 

He ignored the voice and returned to his mug. John dropped in a tea bag and poured in the boiling water, stirred the drink and turned with it in his hands. 

The doctor froze.

The mug was dropped and smashed, hot tea spilling all over the floor. 

The air in the small kitchen suddenly became heavier.

  
  


There, standing at the end of the room was Sherlock and John was certain this time that he was entirely real. His face was unshaven and dirty, his curls matted against his forehead. The once pristine suit that Sherlock had worn to the funeral was now covered in stains and torn in a few places. John knew it was real because along with all that came a distinctive smell.

Sherlock was standing in front of him, a weakened man who looked ready to crumble at any moment. John stared for what felt like an eternity before he walked on unstable legs towards the detective. John could feel the emotions rising inside of him and in one swift movement, he reached up and pulled Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock’s body felt thin and weak but John held on with all his strength. It took the detective a few minutes to register what was happening, but eventually he slid his arms round John’s waist and held on just as tight. 

The two men buried their faces into one another in silence, both of them fearing that if they let go it would all be a dream. John pulled back first and wiped a few tears from his eyes as he looked up at Sherlock. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He said softly, the caring doctor shining through. 

Sherlock merely nodded and allowed himself to be pulled to the bathroom where John lifted the heavy and dirty suit from Sherlock’s body. John threw the discarded clothing to one side, keeping his eyes on the detectives face. His expression hardly changed, even when John filled the bathtub with warm water and nudged Sherlock to sit down. 

Sherlock climbed into the steaming tub and pulled his legs close to his chest. The intimacy of the situation should’ve made him feel more uncomfortable, but really, he just felt safe. Safe and cared for in the presence of John. The doctor used gentle hands to pour water on Sherlock’s curls, allowing the warmth to spread over Sherlock’s head. He washed the detective’s body carefully, letting Sherlock handle the more private areas. Once he was clean, John reached out a hand to steady Sherlock as he stepped out of the bath and wrapped himself in a large towel. 

John’s mind was a sea of emotions, each new wave bringing new feelings with it. The worry had been replaced with relief, the fear had been replaced with solace and above all that, there was love. John walked with Sherlock to his room where the man sat on the bed with uncertainty whilst John fetched pyjamas. There was one question that was playing on John’s mind and once Sherlock had dressed and was lying on the bed, the words slipped from his lips in a quiet whisper.

“Where were you?” 

“I don’t know.” Came Sherlock’s even quieter response.  
  
“I was so worried… I thought.. God, I missed you, Sherlock.” 

“He’s dead and I did nothing. I should’ve noticed something.”

  
“Hey..” John’s voice was soft as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Seeing Sherlock blame himself was too painful to bear. “Hey, it’s not your fault at all. You didn’t know what he was working on or who with, you didn’t know that there was an inside spy. None of us did.” 

“He rang me, John. He rang me and said there was something he didn’t trust about Victor. I should’ve known and then maybe.. Maybe…” 

And then something happened that John had never witnessed before. Sherlock’s body shook, he choked back a noise before he was sobbing desperately. Each breath was shallow and he struggled to find air between his howls. The bedroom was filled with the sound of Sherlock’s weeping and John felt his stomach twist. To see the man in this much torment was unbearable. John shifted so he could pull Sherlock into his arms and the detective curled up on John’s chest, allowing his emotions to flow free.

Since the death and the funeral, Sherlock’s mind had turned off. He wasn’t one for sentiment and trying to make sense of his feelings was proving a lot harder than he thought it would be. That’s why he had disappeared, he needed time to get his mind straight. But the days passed by and the feelings only grew and Sherlock knew he’d have to return home to John. John always made sense of things, he was always there like an anchor in a storm. 

Sherlock breathed deeply, his senses filling with the scent of John and he was faintly aware that John’s hand was in his curls, stroking gently. John was silent but Sherlock could feel the warmth and tenderness that he exuded. As the detective pulled back and looked up, he could see that tears were falling from John’s face too and he swallowed a sob as he stared into the doctor's face. 

John’s expression softened when he locked eyes with Sherlock. He rubbed a thumb over the detective’s cheek, wiping away a few tears. He couldn’t imagine what was going through Sherlock’s head right now, losing his brother and finally returning home, it would all be so much for him. John tried to find a reason not too but none came and so he leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. 

“You should get some rest.” John murmured. Judging from the state of his clothing earlier, Sherlock had been out on the streets and hadn’t had a good night's sleep in over a week. 

“Will you stay?” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, still wet in the corners.  
  
“Of course.” 

John went to move, almost glad that he’d already put a chair in Sherlock’s room. But then he felt a tight grip on his arm and Sherlock’s face was twisted with worry. John furrowed his brows, unsure what Sherlock was asking of him. 

“Stay  _ here _ .” Sherlock whispered. “Please.”

John smiled softly and nodded as he climbed further into the bed and allowed Sherlock to snuggle into his side. The detective cried for a short while longer before sleep pulled him under her spell and he dozed off, one arm draped over John’s middle.

It was a place where John had always wanted to be. In Sherlock’s bed, lying beside the detective, close and intimate. But the road here was an unconventional one and John didn’t want to risk anything so he simply stroked Sherlock’s back and let him sleep. Eventually, John’s eyes started to droop and he let himself fall asleep to the gentle sounds of Sherlock’s breathing. 

When morning came, John woke up first and found Sherlock in the exact same position he’d fallen asleep in, his arm still wrapped protectively around John’s middle. John leant down as best he could and placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s curls, a moment of intimacy before the other woke up. 

Sherlock stirred at the touch and opened his eyes slowly. He recognised his bedroom and let out a sigh of relief remembering that he was finally  _ home _ . Sherlock then felt John’s warmth beneath his head and as he looked up he was met with the softest of smiles. 

In the week that Sherlock had been missing, he’d realised two things. One, that he truly loved his brother more that he realised and two, the exact same sentiment with John.

Dr John Watson was the one constant in Sherlock’s life that made any sense and even though Sherlock knew he was still grieving, he could still feel the weight of Mycroft’s loss on his chest, he also felt content because he had John. 

In the quietness of the morning, Sherlock made a decision. His brother had died not knowing how much he meant to Sherlock and he wasn’t going to let that happen ever again. Slowly, Sherlock sat up and took John’s hands in his own.

“Thank you.”  
  
“What for?” John almost chuckled.  
  
“For last night, for looking for me, for washing me, for staying with me.”

John smiled, unsure how to respond. 

“I miss you too, you know.” Sherlock carried on. “When I was gone, I missed you.”  
  
“I know, Sherlock. But you’re back now and everything will be okay.”  
  
“John, I need to say something.”  
  
“What is it?” 

Sherlock bit his lip, the words right there on the tip of his tongue, hidden behind the fear that now filled him up. What if John didn’t feel the same? What if by admitting the truth he scared John away? But as Sherlock stared into the Doctor’s kind eyes he saw something he recognised, a look that said  _ it’s okay _ and gave Sherlock the courage to utter those words. 

“I love you, John.” 

John thought his heart had skipped a beat when those words rang through his ears. Sherlock Holmes loved him. He knew the journey to get here would’ve been rough for Sherlock and John cupped the detectives face in his hands. 

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s breaths stuttered as he fell back into John’s chest and cried once more. John simply held him close and made a promise to always be there, no matter what. And they stayed there, clinging to each other for the rest of the day, finally opening up about all the feelings they’d been hiding for so long. Sherlock finally accepted his mourning for Mycroft and hand in hand they walked to the man's grave. 

Sherlock knelt down on the damp Earth and gave his final goodbye, uttering the words he’d never dared say in life. John’s hand was on his shoulder and Sherlock could feel the weight of guilt lifting off of him. 

“Goodbye, Mycroft..” He whispered.

They walked back to the flat, barely talking and once inside, Sherlock was in John’s strong arms once more. 

The longest week of John Watson’s life had finally come to an end. 


End file.
